


Loathing

by SuccubusKayko



Series: On a Lark [2]
Category: FFXIV, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Heavensward Spoilers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, May be updated, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pain, Possibly Unfinished Work, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, SUMMARY CONTAINS SPOILERS, Tags May Change, Vomiting, Warnings May Change, title may change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuccubusKayko/pseuds/SuccubusKayko
Summary: But his last words were as gentle and self-less as everything he'd ever whispered to her.“I could not stand to see you hurt. . .”OrThe Warrior of Light deals with the immediate aftermath of the incident in The Vault and the death of an honorable man.





	Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic may change at a later date. I've written and rewritten this a handful of times and I'm not sure that I can do anything else to fix it. I haven't posted anything in a while and I felt like this was the one that could go out the soonest.
> 
> This is an immediate follow up to a much longer fic that I'm working on focusing on my Warrior of Light and Haurchefant Greystone's whirlwind love affair. That fic will probably take a while yet to be finished, but I am currently working on revising the first few chapters.
> 
> (Updated: 2019-02-08 I've rewritten bits and changed the ending a bit. Also, reformatted so that this thing is a bit easier on the eyes.)

 

 

 

That night – or was it day? She couldn't recall, even now, the details lost to the harrowed haze of the images that flowed through her mind like a poison, slowly killing her every time she took a breath – was the worst day of her life. Worse even than when her first lover had perished to that cave in at the mines. Worse, even, than the miserably long seven minutes before her first born finally cried out her first breath. Worse, even, than the third time she'd lost a child at birth, whisked away before she could even hold them in her arms. Worse, even, than when she'd walked out on her infant and second husband because she couldn't bring herself to look at them, because they reminded her so much of him that she couldn't stay because she feared that she would grow to resent them.

Worse, yet, than the night Teledji Adeledji framed she and the scions for the murder of her dear friend, Nanamo, Sultana of Ul'Dah and last of her line. Worse, yet, when she was forced to leave the Scions behind in those tunnels, her friends urging her to run, to escape and get out with her life. Worse, yet, than the night that she fell from that cliff and died on the ice.

Worse, because she had found something so precious in those following days. Worse, because he coaxed her from her shell of self-loathing and hatred. Worse, because he wormed his way into her heart and promised to be with her until his last breath. Worse, because they were betrothed and planning to tell his family. Worse, because their own endeavors had uncovered the lie behind Ishgard's long and torrid history. Worse, because it was the Lord Commander, dear friend and ally, that was dragged away to The Vault for daring to stand against his father. Worse, because he would be punished for questioning the Archbishops reign and the validity of all four high houses claim to their positions.

Though they had found Aymeric in time. Found him before the Heaven's Ward could wheedle the names of those that knew the truth from his lips and leave him impossibly broken and so full of the self-loathing she carried every day.

It was all the worst, because she was relieved when he staggered up those stairs, supported on either side by Estinien and Lucia. Was relived that at last, they could bring these miserable dealings to an end. Was relieved, that at last, she could do something besides sit idly by and hope that things would turn out for the better. Was relieved as she pulled her axe from her back and hurried towards the Archbishop at the end of the dock. Relieved that finally, she could make a difference the way she knew how.

She was so relieved that she did not see Zephirien. Did not see as he gathered the aether in his hands and prepared to finally end her meddlesome life for all that she had brought to light, for all the trouble she had caused in coming to Ishgard at the behest of friends and loved ones.

It was the worst day, because he had stopped it. Called out to her as she barreled forward, reckless and unknowing. As she turned slowly to look back, to see the bright beam of solidified aether flung towards her, he was there. Pulling his shield up and over his shoulder, knees bent and carefully covering her slighter form, taking the brunt of the blow and grunting as he used all of his might to deflect it.

But it was not enough.

All of his strength and all of the gently whispered professions of love were not enough to stop the spear from cracking that shield. From tearing through the metal like it was paper and plunging into his chest and out the other end.

She was the only one that remembered how he screamed. How he grit his teeth against the pain, but could not contain it and finally let out a shrill cry of anguish and pain that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. She was the only one that remembered the pain in his face as he fell to the ground, broken and coughing the blood that filled his lungs in some futile attempt to clear them. Aymeric made it to him first, gathering Haurchefant in his arms and cradling his head in his hand. He was saying something that she couldn't understand as she fell to her knees beside him, flinging off her helm and taking his hand in hers, the tears already threatening to spill like the scream – his scream – that threatened to tear from her lungs in a vicious mockery of the pain that she mirrored.

But his last words were as gentle and self-less as everything he'd ever whispered to her.

“I could not stand to see you hurt. . .”

Aymeric hushed him, begged him not to speak as a fresh spew of blood tore from his throat and spilled over his lips.

And then he made his one selfish request. The first and last of its kind.

“Smile, for me. . .?”

And she did. She swallowed down the acrid bile in her mouth and gave him the brightest smile she could muster. Even he seemed to know it was not genuine, but it would suit.

His hand went limp and heavy in her grasp, his gentle smile going slack and face going still in Aymeric's hands. His breath rasped out of his lungs, the very last. His chest did not rise again, his heart ceased its tremulous beating.

He died, broken and bloodied, in their arms.

 

===

 

She could not speak. She could not think. She held him until Estinien and Lucia and Aymeric were dragging her away from him. She watched his lifeless form until the city watch came to collect him, refusing to leave him until she was sure. She watched as they covered him with a thin white sheet, watched as they bundled him into a litter and carried him away. Away from her and away from where she could see him.

She did not scream. She did not cry. She did not make a peep as they pulled her away from the airship landing. She did not speak as they shuffled her towards House Fortemps. They should be the ones to tell him, she remembered someone saying. The ones that called him friend and the ones that were responsible for him. For his. . . -

She could not bring herself to even think it.

And then they were standing in Lord Edmont's sitting room. They stood before him and listened to him inquire about his son. Watched as the realization washed over his face, but unbelieving until he heard the words.

She was the one that broke the news. That told him that Lord Haurchefant Greystone, second son of House Fortemps, had perished in the line of battle. Perished protecting the life of another, in a manner that befitted his station as an honored knight of his house. That he was a hero to the last breath.

Still, she held fast, as she watched Count Edmont collapse to his knees, begging to be left alone. She heard the echoes of his tortured cries down the hallway as they left. She stood outside on the street outside of the house she had temporarily called home and felt the weight of the world come crashing down on her shoulders.

But, still, she did not shed a tear.

 

===

 

She accompanied Estinien and Lucia and helped them get Aymeric to the chirurgeons. Helped them to care for his wounds and assess the real damage. Aymeric did not look at them. Refusing to meet their eyes as his clothing was removed and the full extent of his wounds was revealed.

She stood guard at the door and did her best not to look. She should not see this. This was not her place, but the smell of wet copper was in her nose and the flashes of his pale skin in the candlelight drew her eye.

The lashes across his back marred his lovely alabaster skin in a contrasting crimson. The spread of dark mottled bruising that covered his shoulders and neck and wrists and chest, did not even make her bat an eyelash. But it was the lesser injuries that stilled her heart and stole her breath, the little wells of blood in the shapes of half-moons and the indention of teeth carefully marking bitter hatred into his skin. The small patch of dried blood between his thighs, drew her gaze momentarily, quickly hidden by the sheet that Estinien hurriedly wound around him to preserve what little dignity he had left.

Aymeric was strong of will and fearless in his convictions. To see him so broken was like a twist of the knife that had already made its home in her heart. That welling of misery and self-hatred and shame that she had felt so many times, that she would feel again so many times by the end of this Twelve's damned war. She knew that look in his eyes, knew it because it stared back at her every time she saw her reflection.

===

She did not recall leaving the room, only that the churning in her belly and the tightness in her chest left her breathless and retching in the snow outside of the infirmary.

She did not know how long she huddled on the ground, how long she sat there heaving and shivering before Tataru and Alphinaud found her. She hated the way they gazed at her with such blatant pity painted across their faces, how they coaxed her to her feet and ushered her to the Forgotten Knight like a lost child and she wondered if this was how Aymeric was feeling now.

She hated herself for hating them. Her closest friends, her only friends here in this _Twelve Forsaken city_ , frigid and cold and hateful as the people that inhabited it. She **hated** _the Heavens Ward_ and the _**Archbishop**_ , for instilling such hurt and shame into a confidant and sure, and truly good man, like Ser Aymeric. She **hated** Zephirien for **taking** Haurchefant away from her, for taking one of the few good things left in her _life_ away from her. She **hated** _Ishgard_ and she **hated** _**Halone**_ , _cursed her every hateful thing she could think of and every terrible thing she could not_ for allowing these atrocities to happen in _**Her**_ name. She _**hated**_ with her entire soul and was, for the first time, _thankful_ that she had lost the light of Hydaelyn, if only so that she could not see how much she _**hated**_. How dark her soul felt now that she did not have an enemy to cleave with her axe and nothing to distract her from her pain.

She **hated** until she was no longer _The Warrior of Light_.

_She_ _ **hated**_ _until she was_ _**The Warrior of Hate**_.

**And she hated how good it felt just to hate.**

She pulled herself together long enough for her feet to carry her to the Forgotten Knight. The rest of Ishgard seemed blissfully unaware of the incident in the vault, still dealing with the fall out of the 'heretics' sacking the city, and she offered a small prayer of thanks to any one listening that no one questioned as she trudged in. Her hands and armor stained with blood that was clearly not her own would certainly draw stares another night.

Tataru practically **dragged** her _kicking and screaming_ out of her soiled armor and filthy clothes and dumped her into the inn's communal ablutions while Alphinaud secured them lodgings for the night. She may very well have just drowned herself in the bath if not for Tataru's wary, watchful eyes and the need for vengeance that burned in her belly. She would kill Zephirien. She would pull his heart from his chest with her bare-fucking-hands, then make him watch as she tore through the rest of the Heaven's Ward with her axe and sliced the Archbishop to ribbons for everything they had done. . .

A hiccuping sob reminded her of Tataru's presence and she clamped down her anger, buried it under the cold ice that had wormed its way into her veins in her time spent here. Her temper cooled as she embraced the biting icy hell of Ishgard and its people. It was no wonder they survived such unforgiving climates, they were literally wrought from it, it seemed.

She climbed out of the bath and put her soiled clothing back on – all of her others were still at House Fortemps and she had no intention of going back there tonight. Not with Haurchefant's blood still staining the fabric. She would send for something. . . later. . .

She ignored Tataru's protests as she exited the baths, making her way out into the common room of the Knight.

 

===

 

Gibrillont was the only one to approach her, his steady calm and knowingly familiar disposition was marred by the pity she could see in his eyes as he pulled a dusty old bottle from a nearby shelf. _He knew,_ she realized, as she took her seat at his bar and asked for a drink. He set down a glass and poured her a drink. It was a thick sludge, clear but cloudy with debris that she recognized as the keeper offered it to her. She looked down at the faded, peeling, label that adorned the old blue bottle and her heart sunk.

The name of Haurchefant's favorite liquor, now hers, mocked her with its deceptively beautiful cursive.

_Ice Tears_.

A drink that was _literally_ poison if not drunk correctly.

It was the first crack in her facade, the first chink in the armor of distant neutral she was using to keep herself from falling apart. She gazed down into the cloudy liquid, watching as the dried debris of icetrap leaves swirled around its surface and remembered a night, cold and harrowing like this and not really so long ago, that she had been offered such a drink. A drink offered by a handsome elezaan with silvered hair and a sharp nose that did nothing to harden the tender, softness in his sky blue eyes and the sad smile upon his lips.

_Hot cocoa cannot fix everything, I must admit. Sometimes there is call for something that cools, rather than warms._

She reached over for the bottle, her arms curling around the perspiring glass, and pulled it to her chest. She just managed to stifle a sob by chewing her lips until they were raw and bleeding. She shook with the effort to contain this insurmountable sadness, but pushed herself to her feet anyway. She didn't want to be here after all. Not when the news broke out. The place would be crawling with Fortemps Knights come to drown their sorrows and she _could not_ be here when they did. Not if she was to keep what small shred of sanity – of hope – that she had left.

_Ice Tears should be shared_ , she remembered, hazily, as she tucked the bottle under her arm. She gave Gibrillont a venomous glare as she left, hating him in the moment for tugging at the thin shield she'd built up. The old elezaan simply tilted his head in acknowledgment, a deep set frown upon his lips, setting hard lines across his face, as she stomped up the stairs and back up to the Congregation's square. She nearly bowled through a group of knights as she stormed through the doors and didn't look back when they shouted obscenities at her. She vaguely heard a muttered word, some warning about angering the 'Lady Warrior' and she almost did turn then. Half tempted to take out her building aggression on the arrogant bastards.

But she did not.

They were not the draw of her ire.

She forced herself forward.

 

===

 

Maybe Ser Lucia would drink with her. She didn't know the woman that well, but she certainly seemed the type to have a cheeky nip when the day was bitterly cold and unkind. Yes, Lucia would make a fine drinking partner. She knew how to be discreet and she spoke only when necessary. And she'd probably know how to stop before she'd had too much.

Ser Lucia would be perfect.

But when she searched for her, Lucia could not be found. She had since left the infirmary to let the Lord Commander rest, assured that he would live. She was relieved of that, too, if she was being honest with herself – which she wasn't. Relief wasn't allowed today – or was it still night – not after what had happened the last time. But Lucia was no where to be found. And Shirina didn't know her well enough to know where she tucked her boots and lay her head at night. Maybe the barracks? But that wouldn't do, the barracks were too public.

Better to let sleeping knights lay.

 

===

 

Maybe Estinien, then?

Yeah, Estinien seemed the type to enjoy a stiff drink. Maybe he'd loosen up and talk more? She almost laughed at the thought. She asked after him from a passing chirurgeon, one that nearly bowled her over, and was told that he was with the Lord Commander. _Yeah, that makes sense_ , she agreed long after the man had gone, _those two are thick as thieves_.

The voice that echoed back at her sounded like it had swallowed daggers. It was course and wheezy and broken. It took her a long while to realize that it was her own.

Maybe she needed the drink more than she thought. . .

 

===

 

She soon found herself in the infirmary once more.

She didn't want to disturb Aymeric, he was recovering, but maybe she could lure Estinien out?

She tiptoed towards Aymeric's room and came upon the door, open just enough to let the dim candlelight filter through the crack, illuminating the otherwise darkened hall. She tried to quietly peek inside, but she'd forgotten the bottle tucked under her arm and the glass neck clinked a bit too loudly against the wooden frame.

“Who goes,” was the tired rumble from inside, laced with sudden panic that she was certain she should not have heard.

It was not Estinien's irritated tone. It was Ser Aymeric.

“No body,” she whispered to the wood and was surprised to hear a hopeful lilt in his response, “Estinien?”

“No,” she said a bit louder, glaring at the bottle beneath her arm as though it had deeply offended her. She mustered herself enough to say loud enough to be heard, “It's Shirina.” Her throat hurt just to say it, as though admitting that she was still herself was somehow a betrayal.

There was another shuffling of cloth and she swore she heard the clink of a glass, but dared not open the door further. After a moment or two, Aymeric's voice returned clearer, surer, but even in her malaise she could hear the strain, “My lady.” She ignored the tight feeling in her chest at the familiar moniker and she could not remember in that moment why it hurt to hear it. “It is quite late, but if you have need of me. . ?” His words trailed off, but she could hear the true meaning.

_Please, leave me be._

She considered just leaving. Just taking her bottle of whiskey and leaving and finding a quiet shadowed alley in the city to spend the night and drown herself. She couldn't go back to House Fortemps, not when she knew that the Lords of the house were all grieving. She couldn't face them with sorrow in their eyes. She still didn't want to believe that it was _true_.

“I don't have a place to stay tonight,” she admitted, only just coming to the conclusion herself as she brushed a finger idly over the crack of the door, “I do not feel welcome at-” She swallowed hard and rolled her eyes heavensward at the threat of falling tears that made her eyes burn, “I cannot return _there_ , tonight.”

“O-f course,” he harshly whispered and she had a moment to dread that the anger was directed at herself. But that was a short lived moment as she heard his breath escape in the barest whisper of a sob. She knew that she was not meant to hear it, but so few of her friends remembered that she had superior hearing due to her long tufted ears, and Aymeric was apparently one of them.

She heard him swallow wetly, before his voice came back steady, but tired, “You may stay at my manor, if you'd like. I have an extra room that you might use for now. Any of the knights at the Congregation can lead you to it.” A pregnant pause and she could tell that he was waiting for her to reply or leave.

“I'll do that,” she agreed, turning on her heel, “Thank you, Ser Aymeric. . .”

She could hear the hitch in his voice at the sound of his name and she winced. She couldn't even blame it on the alcohol. She'd not even had a drop and she was bumbling about as though she'd had several casks. What was she doing? This poor man had been through hell and she was begging him for a place to stay for the night. She could just as easily rent a room at the Forgotten Knight, but. . .

She turned sharply down the hall and managed to march herself almost to the end when a sharp sound pierced her ears. She should not have heard it. She was not supposed to hear the sounds of him falling apart beyond that door. Should not have heard the strangled, keening cry escape his lips. No one else would have heard it and she shouldn't have either. She considered just leaving.

_Just leave, you idiot, you can't help him! You can't help yourself!_

The sound of glass breaking urged her feet into racing her back to the door and tearing it open.

She didn't see him at first, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room, bright compared to the dark hallway. She searched the room and found him curled in the corner, tucked between the bed and the wall, knees tucked up to his chin and glass littering the floor around him. She could not keep herself from going to his side. From brushing the broken glass away from his feet with the swipe of her boot and kneeling beside him.

The wet tracks on his face. The bruises beneath his too-wide eyes and peeking from beneath his cotton shirt. The blood that trailed down the fingers of his hand still clutching the shattered remnants of a drinking glass and mixing with a dark, amber liquid, staining the otherwise clean and sterile whites of his clothing a blossoming crimson and brown. They were all blatant evidence of his distress.

He flinched as she reached out for him.

It chipped at her facade a little more.

She ignored his weak protests as she carefully plucked the broken remnants from his hand. She inspected his bleeding fingers for shards of the offending glass, then gingerly curled them into the hem of his dressing gown when she was satisfied. She made to stand, to get something better suited to tend to him, but she felt herself tugged back. She looked down to see a white-knuckled fist balled into the stained silks of her pantaloons. She turned to find him looking directly into her face, his eyes too wide, too much white and too little blue, and abject horror parting his lips in a silent plea for help.

_Please stay_ , she could read in that face. _Please don't leave me like this._

She schooled her face to be as calm as he always pretended to be, but she could not quite muster a kind smile. She gently took his death gripped hand in hers and gently pried them from her clothing. She clicked her tongue as they then grabbed at her hands, desperate for contact. Something to ground him. Something to keep him from fraying apart before her very eyes like an old, thread bare rag left out in the elements. She held his hands, tentatively bringing them to her lips to brush over his bruised knuckles, kissing it like a lord might a lady. But this was not romantic. This was comfort. This was understanding. She held his hand between hers until his grip lessened. Held it until his eyes were not so wide. Held it until he was not jumping at the sound of his own breath in his ears or the crunch of grit beneath her boot when she shifted her weight.

She slowly untangled one hand from his, hushing and soothing his panic with the brush of a thumb over his knuckles. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it. His eyes focused on the movement, going hazy and unfocused, but watching.

She adjusted her feet beneath her, slowly rising and keeping his hand firmly in hers. She took a slow, tentative step backwards and he stubbornly remained, looking after her like he was lost. Her heart ached to see this powerful, confidant man reduced to a small, broken child before her eyes.

“Aymeric,” she breathed, words deliberate and gentle. He did not immediately refocus on her and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze to pull him back. His eyes blinked, startled, and he started to make a strangled sound, but quickly eased as she soothed him with gentle brushes of her thumb over his knuckles and whispers of ' _I have you. You are safe, here.'_ Even if she did not believe them herself.

He nodded slowly in understanding, but his brows furrowed in confusion as he slowly released her hand, as though he were not quite sure how it had gotten into his grip. She ignored the pins and needles that prickled her finger tips when he let her go and quickly slipped it from his view before he could see the wells of half-moons imprinted into her skin.

“Aymeric,” she tried again, voice low and soft as feather down. He nodded at her again and she continued, “I am going to get something to clean your hand.” She said it slowly, deliberately saying each word with great care, as though she were speaking to a frightened animal. Because he was just that, right now. One wrong word, one wrong move, one wrong breath and he would likely bolt or worse.

She took a few tentative steps back, her hand held out to assure him as much as herself, and trying not to wince at the sound of glass crunching beneath her boot. It would be impossible to clean this up with him this way, so she did not try. Instead she backed away slowly until she felt the end of his bed bump the back of her knees. She set a hand on the wooden board and used it to guide herself around to the bedside table, her eyes never leaving him for long, just quick glances to make sure she wouldn't trip over something, as though he would just fade away if she did. She was ready to rush back if necessary.

“Just stay there,” she whispered. When he nodded again, she finally took her eyes from him long enough to scan the room for the small wash basin that _should_ be present. She found the little bowl on the sideboard and dumped a handful of clean cotton cloths into it, then tucked one in her belt, before returning to him. She settled beside him on the balls of her feet and balanced the bowl of frigid water between her knees, holding out an open palm for his injured hand. He watched her in weary curiosity, his dark curls falling over his face and making his adult face look all the more like a frightened child. She swallowed her anger down and waited patiently for him to understand.

By fractions, he eased, though the tension in his eyes and face and shoulders never really left. By heart wrenching degrees, he untangled his torn fingers from the hem of his gown and stretched it towards her, hesitant and flinching.

She cupped the back of his hand in her open palm and carefully draped the dripping cloths over her forearm. She slowly eased his hand closer to her, over the bowl, and scrutinized it further. The cuts were shallow enough, thankfully. She'd managed to make it in time. Before he could really dig his hands in. . . or. . .

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and chose a wet cloth to squeeze over his hand. He tugged his hand back, but she held him in a firm, but gentle grip. She murmured nothings to him, just little words of nonsense, something for him to focus on as she let the cool water flow over his fingers. He winced, but made no further fuss, finally seeming to trust her not to hurt him further.

She heard the footsteps down the hall before he did and she whispered at him to stay calm. When the steps neared the door, she raised her voice just high enough to call out, “Who is it?” She did not turn her face away from his, focusing on her task and glancing up to give him a careful nod of assurance.

“Estinien,” the voice rumbled from outside the door, and Aymeric's eyes widened again, glancing furtively at the open door.

“Shh, its alright,” she cooed, settling the next cloth gingerly over his injured hand. “Take off your helmet,” she called over her shoulder, gently massaging the cool water into Aymeric's skin to ease the sting, “And your boots. Oh, but be careful, there's broken glass.”

She heard the sharp sound of his confusion, then the thunking of his boots as he left them beside the door, then another as his helm fell beside them.

“Slow, steps,” her words pitched a little high into sing-song notes curling past her lips, burning through her throat like fire. She could not keep the edge of fear from her voice any longer, so she tried to cover it up with something more pleasant, “Shut the door~?”

The Azure, turned Crimson, Dragoon padded lightly into the room and gingerly shut the door behind him, his eyes scanning over them.

“What's happened,” Estinien managed to swallow a growl, for which she was grateful.

“Just a little accident,” she hummed, glancing back and giving him a worried look.

He seemed to understand and tried to make himself busy, gathering up a towel and spreading it across the floor as he got to his hands and knees and began to gather up the discarded shards with great care and feigned disinterest in the other two occupants of the room.

Aymeric's eyes focused on him, watching intently as he moved. She took that as a good sign and carefully scrubbed the ragged edges of his fingers, before tearing strips of the dry one to wind around the digits. She tied little knots in the ends of each, not too tight, but enough to stay in place.

“There,” she murmured, soothing the back of his hand with her thumb. The movement brought his eyes back to hers and they were more focused, less frightened. His breathing was less frantic and his lips pursed in embarrassment. Estinien's silent, brooding presence worked wonders for his panicked mind and his face was relaxed enough to be some semblance of normal.

He opened his mouth to say something as she set the bowl on the ground beside her, tucking the soiled rags and pink tinged water from his immediate view. He closed his mouth and nodded firmly, gently flexing his bound fingers.

“We should get you back into bed,” Shirina offered, stretching her aching legs from beneath her and bearing her full weight back onto her feet. She even managed not to cringe as she swallowed down bile and refused to let her stomach rebel **right now, damnit!**

It stayed down and she reached for his other hand to help him to his feet. He tentatively took them, his grip firm and sure as he got his feet beneath him. She carefully led him to the edge of his bed, swiping her well protected foot across the floor to dash the glass away from his bare feet. She allowed him to steady himself against her shoulder as she peeled back the blankets and settled him on the edge. He leaned against the headboard and she gingerly lifted and tucked his feet beneath the sheets, before pulling them up to his waist.

He seemed to have a better grip on himself as she pulled back to offer him a small, tentative smile, the first that she could muster that night, though it was not genuine.

“Thank you,” his voice quavered only slightly as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and just a touch of shame, “I apolo-”

“Don't. . . We all have bad days,” she managed, keeping her eyes turned away from the relief in his face. She could not handle relief and she could not handle the shame that bled back into his eyes, “And today has been bad for all of us. . .”

Estinien had gathered up a broom from down the hall and she made to take it from him, to busy herself before she let her mind drift back to her own hurts.

“I've got this,” the dragoon huffed as he pushed passed her to gather up the discarded bowl.

“Just,” she began, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. He turned his storm gray eyes to her and she thought she might break under the weight of his disapproval, “Just let me finish up here.”

He nodded and let her take the broom from him. She swept up the remainder of the glass and gathered it up in the towel as Estinien collected the discarded rags and water bowl. They awkwardly milled around each other, each focused on their tasks and it took every fiber of her being to breath normally. She rested the broom on the door frame and bundled the towel up into her hands.

When she turned back, Estinien had pulled a chair closer to the side of Aymeric's sick bed. They were murmuring quietly to each other, and she tried to tune them out. Their conversation was private and she didn't need to hear it. Didn't want to. Shouldn't. . .

“Rest well,” she whispered as her brain caught up to her. The room was too small and she was painfully aware that these men were not her family. These men were still practically strangers, though they called her friend. She was painfully aware that this was not her home. **Painfully** aware that she did not _belong_ here.

 

===

 

She was thankful that no one called after her as she hurried out of the door, that no one _followed_ after her. She had only a moment to think, dashing the towel into a used linens bin and tearing open the door of the infirmary building to throw herself to her hands and knees in a snow drift to be sick.

She was startled for a moment as she felt a touch of warmth upon the back of her hand. The way that for just a moment her mind flashed back to the memory of gentle, calloused fingers folding over her own, brushing a thumb over her knuckles so sweetly.

_Calming._

_Soothing._

But she would never feel that tender touch again.

And as she crouched there, trembling from the cold and calm, cool rage settling over her, she could feel the first hot beads of tears leak over her freezing fingers. She knew that she could not hold back the storm that had brewed deep in her gut any longer.

Now, she could feel only the flame of burning hatred and _**loathing**_. . .

 

 

 


End file.
